Love, in its many forms

When I say “I love someTHING”, I mean I feel a deep emotional connection to that thing or that this thing in some way makes my life livable. I love music or I love Luis Royo’s art. When I say I love you, I mean I feel a deep and abiding emotional connection that changes how I see the world because now all things include you in the context loop of my thoughts. When I click Love in a social media context I mean I either love you the person dealing with situation or that the thing is something I feel a deep emotional connection to.

This is a reaction to the “I love you” vs “I’m in love with you” statement.

People use the wording to differentiate romantic vs Platonic love. For me, platonic love is merely a lower level of romantic love. Often, platonic love is just a suppression of romantic love, which can become more if the opportunity presents itself.

Family is different. I love them at a remove from myself. They exist as love by connection, if that makes sense.

Platonic and romantic love, exist internally. Familial exists outside that. It is a web of obligations and connections. In many respects it is like the way that I regard someone as mine. It invokes a web of obligations and connections. Maybe that makes for a muddle but it exists as crystalline truth to me.

A dream on a Sunday Morn

I dreamed that I was at a club as the sun was falling Sunday night. I was invited there by the owners. One of whom sat the door and another was behind the bar. There was a full kitchen serving small dishes and a upper floor where people could rest and sit and have food. It was a gay club and this is important. I’m sitting at the door talking to my friend and people are walking in, hesitant, young. Some afraid to step in, some afraid they will be turned away, rejected here as they are rejected elsewhere. Snubbed here as they are snubbed elsewhere. But my friend smiles and nods and they are welcomed in. The club night is called Church. In walks a big burly guy, not bad looking but rough. And he turns to my friend and says “it’s a bit blasphemous to have a club called Church on Sunday.” My friend just shrugs and waves him in. But I can’t let it go. I say “We call it church because this is the place we are loved and accepted. Here we aren’t judged for who we love. Here we aren’t told we are monsters or unworthy. Here we are free. THIS is our church where we are free to worship as we please with those that please us.” My friend looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. Because I don’t generally confront people about their bullshit. Then he turns to the guy and says, “Yeah, what he said.” After sitting the door for awhile we go in and we have fun and dance. We are not the stereotype. We are not good dancers, but we are happy, enthusiastic and free. A young gentleman whom I am acquainted with slips his hand across my shoulder, his hand resting on my chest. I place my hand on his and say, “Hello, my love.” I say it impishly, playfully. But he pulls his hand back like I burned him. I turn around to see his shocked expression and I can’t help but laugh. My friend gives me a look and we smile and laugh as the young man disappears, fleeing. Whether from our laughter or the shock, I don’t know. My friend has the DJ put on a record and tells the room with a shake of the head and a the back of the hand to his forehead that He’s sorry but he had to. Then the beat of Gloria Gaynor, I will survive comes up and we groan and laugh and people get up from their seats and dance like silly happy fools. And then I wake.

A heart leads

I have never been a man who could not follow his heart. When I was younger that meant looking for the cracks in the world. It meant exploiting my talents and the talents of others for fun and profit. When I met Morgan, that started to change. I began to mold myself into a man she would be proud of. When she was ripped from me, my heart led me into darkness. Into silence. Because in the hushed darkness it was easier to heal. And, while externally, I became more harsh, more abrasive, more cutting; internally I became introspective. As I poured over and over the events of that night searching for any way, any possibility that this was a dream, a nightmare. And despite myself, I healed. And I met a man who led my heart out of that darkness. Who showed me it was OK to love again. OK to still be alive. He eventually left but I was awake and could not close myself again.
So I followed my heart. Again and again each time I was hurt. Each time I learned what humanity was. In my long absence, I had grown cold and distant. Until a year ago, when I finally forgave myself for not saving her. I forgave myself. But I must acknowledge that I failed My Morgan. And I will never fail a love again, if I can help it. If I know what is happening.
And I opened myself up, and I, in my naivety perhaps, thought I had found. But no, again and again, my heart leads me to people who are hurt and I try to help them. Because that is who I am now. Not the only thing, but it is one of the pillars. But I pay a price each time. I can love and love forever. And each person I love leaves or will only give so much before they pull back to safety. And so I am stripped bare. Cast adrift, seeing the bright lights of the people I love, twinkling from the shoreline. While I drift at sea, forever unable, seemingly, to make landfall.

Waking up in purgatory

A ten by ten room
made of blood and bone
sinew taut and running rone
languid thought and slashing blade
hurricane disaster
a grip on the horizon
and the last drop of whisky
hard to loose oblivion
drunk on pleasure and serotonin withdrawal
awaking nightmare
found without rudder
without sail
adrift
welcoming the last storm

15 days, dwindling

I miss caring for someone and being cared for in return. I miss giving an order and having carried it out. I miss the joy on my their face when I say, “Good Girl.” I miss the life. The life as I learned it. The submission and compliance. Punishment and reward. Rules made to show care, to demonstrate love, to make each moment better. Never to hold back, always to foster growth. I miss these things, but mostly I miss being loved. I miss loving someone full bore with my slightly crazy heart and being loved in return by theirs.

I miss the lifestyle because it’s the only world I’ve known where love is the most important thing. Where communication rises to the level of my need. Where such is internally enforced by the cultural norms of the lifestyle. Maybe this is my experience because I’m the common denominator, I know that others have experienced abuse, that this lifestyle draws abusers and takers.

I’m not that. I have no way to convince you. You would need to trust me. I have no real point here. I’m 15 days out and I guess I just miss my Morgan. We weren’t perfect, but we had love. I miss her. I miss who I was with her. I miss…

Just a thought 

Not being able to fall out of love is a hell I’d not wish on anyone. It’s the state I find myself in. It fades but the smallest hint or hope brings it flooding back. The truth is, once I fall, I fall forever. Is it lucky or horrible that I can love multiple people completely? To live torn apart like this, when I am single and to fall again when not. Life is a cruelty. 

Held lightly and with consent

I hate when my people are hurting
I know they aren’t mine mine, despite my desire, but I can’t help how I feel. I want them happy or at least content and I wish I could help other than by just being there. I wish I was allowed to. I wish I could sweep them into my arms and at least hold them. And make sure they know that they are loved. I’m not much for jokes so I can’t give laughter most days, but I can give safety and words of beauty. And actions of care, if I am allowed, though I rarely am.

Valentine’s day 19

The problem with planning a day like this is there are always surprises. I completely missed that Tara was not ready to marry us. I didn’t anticipate that she would need comfort for saying no. And I didn’t anticipate having a scene in the car on the drive home. I’m completely exhausted. I don’t think I have another scene in me. At least not for a few hours. But how do I stall is the question.

The ladies are using the bathroom before we start again while I wait. I’ve dragged a stool to the center of the room and sit here pondering the next step. It’s not about sex. Though, for us, that’s a part of it. Maybe I need to bring us back to focus.

I walk into the bedroom. The sounds of our shower drift through the open door. A clear invitation but not what I think is needful, though it makes me smile. My girls are always very happy and considerate. Except when they are angry or sad or upset. They are by no means dolls.

But it’s my job to get them to here, where the world can’t touch us. And they make it so that my anxiety doesn’t spill out and sink me into depression. Because, I can’t think about my darkness when they are in need and by the time they are taken care of and I get a ‘Yes, Sir’ confirmation, all that inner turmoil has gone. Replaced by the deep glow of Dominance float.

For me that means a deep well of calm and light settled below the absolute certainty of control and love. It’s the best feeling in the world. I highly recommend it.

I am browsing through the closet for an outfit for my girls. Something matching perhaps? Or no, something suited to the next task. And despite my current inability to perform, I find myself excited to run my hands across the sweet flesh of Sara and Tara, after all I’m not a robot.

The black silk dress pants and cream blouse for Sara. No panties. I want her to feel the brush of silk over sensitive places.
For Tara, a walking harness made of white soft lace and the pink leash with the silver hearts.

I carry my selections out to the bedroom and lay each item out. Pants first, then blouse, then harness then leash. The anticipation builds in me. Pressure welling in my pelvis. A tightening that strums me like a violin string. Right! Music…

John Coltrane, “A Love Supreme” in its entirety. Perfect. The first strains spill out into the room calling like a siren. Luring my intrepid sailors to shore.